WMN EXCLUSIVE: Poet's Corner...Your words, your way
There have always been
Evil dictators through out time
With Ganges Kan
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And Adolf Hitler
Springing to mind
And what of Pol Pot
Who was not at all kind!
He himself leaving
The sculls of a million
Poor dead intellectual
And now we have big
Who was educated?
In England incredibly
As medical doctor
When a nicer kinder lad
Because you see power
Does what it has always
And will do yet again
That is to make
Its perpetrators inhumane
And when it is they
Finally catch him
As they will in time
Why you may depend there
Will yet another monster
Down the terror line
For this world of ours
Is in truth not the best
With it seeming to be
Full of those who murder
Rape and carry out so
Many other social disgraces!
Now what of those
Diabolical evil two
Why who knows
What it is that given?
Power we might also do!
Lovies in auntie's drama pool
What ever has gone wrong?
With the BBC
So as now it's all about over
Paid executives and rubbish
Why can't they realise that
Enough is enough
And that just once a week
Will do for East Enders and all
That queasy Cockney speak
And supposed inner city stuff
Moreover when tonnes of
Young people come out
Fresh drama schools
Why do the same old boring
Faces appear again and again
As though there are only
A select few in the know
Lovies in auntie's drama pool
The news is good and so is
The sport and Question Time too
As are regional programs
Which see things in a way
That affect but me and you
But the rest is frankly shocking
And mostly about cooking
With only a middle class
Entertainment kind of view
It was better mind thirty years
Before they started to employ
All manner of clones who act
Like kids and twerps on stuff
Like the "no" one show
The radio is not bad mind
Its fare to say
And they still know how to
Communicate in and educated
And informed kind of way
But as for telly it seems to
Have lost its way
And is now less about entertainment
And more about paying for
A lot of hangers on's exotic
Hideously expensive holidays!
Carpeting the ground
In shades of yellow and gold
Branches now bare
Stand starkly against dull skies
Reach out to claim her rights
To shroud the landscape
In her coat of grey mists
As rivers break their banks
With pale skies and soft hues
Spring breaks through anew
The promise of new life dawns
Once more the snowdrops flower
By warm balmy days
Summer shows her happy face
Flowers bloom, birds sing
The seasons have come full circle
A wind up
Generators gigantic will blight the Atlantic!
North Devon is now under threat:
Our desire for fuel could result in acts cruel.
We'll be snared in developer's nets.
What price will we pay?
The Atlantic Array could harness the power we need;
But what is the cost of the habitats lost
To fuel our insatiable greed?
Now, what do you see in our wide open sea?
Only Lundy surrounded by calm.
With space for all creatures
Enjoying the features of landscape that will suffer harm.
When the great London Eye fills your view of the sky
And you gasp at the scale of its size,
Just imagine that view, one twenty times two,
When arrayed right in front of your eyes.
How can it be green, this construction obscene?
An assault to our seascape and senses;
Our ecology wrecked by the lack of respect
for our Flora and Fauna's defences.
And what of the noise? We won't have any choice
But to suffer the whooshes and booms.
Our peaceful location, the choice for vacations
Will reverberate, echoing doom.
And how will the roads cope with all of the loads
From the lorries transporting the soil
For the building of stations fulfilling the nation's
Desire to consume and despoil?
So the cables they lay to and from the array
Will be hidden and buried from sight:
But the damage that's done will affect everyone in the process
So put up a fight!
Will our grandchildren tell that our souls we did sell?
And kept quiet when push came to shove?
Sat back and did nought, not gave voice to our thoughts
And our silence condemned us to Hell?
Celia Ann Merrill
I have come back to Dartmoor.
Famous Seamus has gone to the other shore
That man, that great man of words
Who has woven myth and magic
Out of the everyday farmyard of our lives,
Looking over hedges, digging ditches
Watching the school bus dibbing down the lanes
Where childhood has its own streams
And the meadows are free and easy
And the flowers in our hearts have a particular
Colour which has its own meaning
Redolent and earthy, in the bog of nature.
He has closed the book of his life
And what rich and generous book that was.
Each line a way of fishing out the dark nuggets
Of wisdom that we can dust down and read again.
I'm a prickly hedgehog
Snuffling in the wood
Looking for a slimy slug
Or any other tasty bug
Lurking in the mud.
My friends the moles
And all the voles
Ducks by the shore
Birds in the hedges
Toads in sedges
We all make our contribution
Tidying up the eco-system.
But it's not all good
in the wild, wild wood
Because the badger and fox
Up at the top
– Some call it a food chain –
pat in their claim.
They gobble the lot
the badger and fox.
A rabbit for lunch
Bird's eggs for brunch
Supper's a vole
poor little soul
And for tea?
it could be me!
So I roll in a ball
When the leaves start to fall
Keeping quiet – off their diet.
Or should I wave a little banner
in the humanistic manner
Hoist on a log "Save the Hedgehog"
Or just stay curled
and say goodbye world.
Ode to Torquay
There is only one place that I want to be
Right here at the heart of lovely Torquay
The Riviera Wheel and Living Coasts
All of the sights that I love most
Palm trees and stretches of golden sand
The museum, so old and very grand
The seagulls, Marina and Pavilion too
The rolling green hills, so perfect a view
There is only one place that I'm meant to be
Right here at the heart of lovely Torquay
The cheese of my childhood
I remember the cheese of my childhood,
And the bread that we cut with a knife,
When the children helped with the housework,
And the men went to work not the wife.
The cheese never needed a fridge,
And the bread was so crusty and hot,
The children were seldom unhappy
And the wife was content with her lot.
I remember the milk from the bottle,
With the yummy cream on the top,
Our dinner came hot from the oven,
And not from the fridge; in the shop.
The kids were a lot more contented,
They didn't need money for kicks,
Just a game with their mates in the road,
And sometimes the Saturday flicks.
I remember the shop on the corner,
Where a pen'orth of sweets was sold
Do you think I'm a bit too nostalgic?
Or is it....I'm just getting old?
I remember the 'loo' was the lav,
And the bogy man came in the night,
It wasn't the least bit funny
Going "out back" with no light.
The interesting items we perused,
From the newspapers cut into squares,
And hung on a peg in the loo,
It took little to keep us amused.
The clothes were boiled in the copper,
With plenty of rich foamy suds
But the ironing seemed never ending
As Mum pressed everyone's 'duds'.
I remember the slap on my backside,
And the taste of soap if I swore
Anorexia and diets weren't heard of
And we hadn't much choice what we wore.
Do you think that bruised our ego?
Or our initiative was destroyed?
We ate what was put on the table
And I think life was better enjoyed.
The above poem, widely published on the internet, was submitted for your enjoyment by Barry Thomas, Redruth.
Royal William Yard, Plymouth
I drink coffee
where convict labourers provisioned sailing ships,
with cutlasses, kegs of rum, gunpowder, biscuits,
the Portland stone their last goodbye.
William still looks down
on the Royal Navy gliding by.
Letter boxes and upstarts on Dartmoor
Out on Dartmoor and miles away, we'll seek letter boxes today. Then stamp our logs with our ink pad and travel on feeling glad we shared the open secrets there and were part of that Moor affair.
Some stamps, boxed up, are now quite new, in places more than a few. Artists and craftsmen take their part and make the new stamps quite an art. Then place them in a little tin or box and later hole them in.
A new mode has appeared on 'net' although I have not used it yet. geo-cacheing is a new gain offered by that electro-brain. A new angle for an old hat; a lot of people will try that.
For me, however, there's a ring to Dartmoor and that is the thing which sets the old boxes apart, from the geo-cacheing upstarts luring followers far and wide, not only where Moor boxes bide.
'We can't pick daisies anymore
To make a daisy chain,'
I overheard my daughter
In disgusted tones complain.
'We can't do handstands either,
It's now against the rule;
Or play our games with skipping.
That's what we're told at school.
'We can't play 'tag' when running,
And yo-yos now are banned;
Can you explain the reasons?
I just can't understand.
We can't play ball or climb a tree,
Lest one of us gets hurt,
Or play hide-and-seek in bushes,
In case there might be 'dirt'.
We'll pick up germs from flowers,
That's what everyone is told;
(Yet you picked flowers, mummy,
When you weren't very old!)
'We mustn't play near water now,
Our climbing frames have gone;
So what will there be left for us
If things just carry on?
We mustn't ride on skateboards,
Or stray from our front door;
In fact, I tell you mummy,
That it's all one dreadful BORE!'
Jam on top – or no
Where then is the cream to go?
All Devonians will mutter
"Cream is there in place of butter,
So obviously it's spread on first".
The other way is roundly cursed,
Cornish choughs will disagree
So when they gather for their tea
It's jam on first from out the pot
And a large dollop of cream on top
Jam will soak into the bread (That's as maybe, so tis said).
Twill hold the creamy top in place.
Any arguments – watch this space.
So each must study the family tree
And make a decision on what it's to be.
But cream and jam, Cornish or Devon
Spread on bread– it's a slice of heaven.